


You Know You Can't Chase the Stars Underwater

by human_dreamer_etcetera



Series: Those Binary Stars [4]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, But like... angst with hope. Mayhaps Angst Lite™ - idk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Joan is frustrated with Morse's poor choices, Max is frustrated with Morse's poor choices, Morse is also frustrated with Morse's poor choices, Now with bonus (domestic) fluff!, Parenthood, Sometimes support is distracting your friend/husband and sometimes it's telling him to do better, but everyone is gentle with him anyway, ft. Morse singing to babies because. I can have a little wish fulfillment. as a treat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/pseuds/human_dreamer_etcetera
Summary: Sometimes Max wondered if the trouble was simply that his friend held too many people's stories.Morse copes poorly with a rough case. Despite not entirely understanding why, Max does his best to offer support. Later, Joan gets at the heart of the matter.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday, Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Series: Those Binary Stars [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822189
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Birthday Song" by Andrew McMahon in the Wildnerness, despite my aversion to using song lyrics as titles (despite appreciating when other people do, idk, it somehow feels like cheating for me? I do not pretend to understand my own self-imposed standards), because it inspired so much of the mood of this fic and the line fit so well with the overall theme of titles in this 'verse.

Sometimes Max wondered if the trouble was simply that his friend held too many people's stories.

The nature of their work means they usually meet under inauspicious circumstances. Max has long since accepted his role as speaker for the dead. Dead men tell no tales, but their bodies often do. Morse, for all his recited speeches about justice for the dead and protection for the living, sometimes seems to buckle under the weight of everyone he couldn’t save, the lives cut short and daily dramas interrupted. Max has met few policemen with Morse’s years of experience who are still capable of conceptualizing each person who crosses their path as an individual. While it seems cruel to say it, he understands: he, too, cannot allow himself to empathize overmuch with the one at the cost of the many; he gives his attention to the one under his care, and then moves on, again and again.

Even on those occasions others would deem a success, when CID intervention prevents further harm, Max will still catch Morse staring off into space, frowning, tugging at his earlobe, lost in a haze of what could have been. Though it verges on maudlin, such a reaction would be forgivable, were it not for Morse’s less-than-savory methods of coping. There are times Morse seems determined to wallow, to make sometimes agonizingly terrible decisions, as though to punish himself now that he’s outgrown the age of lashing out at the world. 

Of course he cares for his friend, but as the wounds of mistaking self-sacrifice for heroism and self-flagellation for responsibility accumulated over the years, he did start to wonder if Morse might be using him as an excuse not to develop better coping skills. In many of his relationships, Max struggles to walk the line between acceptance and enabling, and the time for asking no questions versus the time for a little tough love.

He’s seemed better, on the whole, these last few years. For better or worse, Morse does best at caring for himself when he remembers he matters to someone else. Joan’s been good for him; she brings out a lightness in him that Max is glad to see more often, and her expectations are high, though never without compassion. And the softness that steals over Morse’s features anytime he talks about either of his daughters… He looks almost unguarded, in a way he hasn’t been in years, maybe before they even met. What with one thing and another, Max hasn’t had the chance to meet the new baby yet, but the last time he was invited for lunch, little Sophie’s conversation skills were blooming, and she chattered away in something approximating English to her parents and Max throughout the meal. After, while Joan and Max sat together and swapped reviews of novels and cake recipes, Sophie tugged tried to wheedle him into sneaking her one of the biscuits left on the table, and the fond smile on Morse’s face as he returned from the washing up and he playfully snapped a wet dish towel at her warmed Max’s heart. It’s not the happy ending he thought either of them would ever have, and while he’s accepted he’s unlikely to form a family of his own, he’s glad to be, in a way, one small part of this one.

He hasn’t seen anything close to that smile all week, hasn’t heard one word about Joan or the little ones. This case has been something truly hellish, and Morse is bowing under the weight of it. It’s plain to see, for anyone who cares to go looking: in the hunch of his shoulders, the pinch at the corner of his mouth, the sharpness in his voice that has nothing to do with the words themselves and everything to do with something boiling over in him that he’s afraid to let out. 

He’s letting himself drown again. It makes Max want to roll his eyes and walk away. It makes him want to put his arms around Morse and tell him there’s a difference between being weak and being human. It makes him wish he had the words, and that Morse, for once in his damn life, knew how to listen.

They stand on opposite sides of a gleaming silver table, a body between them. Max watches the way Morse swallows too hard, again and again, and wonders if he’s swallowing back tears or bile, or both. He remembers, vividly, the first time Morse came here, the way his eyes rolled in his head and his spine seemed to melt as his body swayed and went limp. If he passes out tonight, he’ll hit the floor; there’s no Thursday to catch him, and Max is far too depleted now to run to his side.

He can’t miss the way Morse’s eyes keep darting to those three bullets in a tray, even as he’s angled himself away from it all. He knows the question Morse can’t bring himself to ask, knows the answer he doubts he could be convinced to give even if he had it. It doesn’t matter anyway; it’s a detail that can’t change the end of the story.

How does one start a fraught conversation with Morse, as any talk of emotions is bound to be? Carefully, very carefully. With an air of forced levity, Max reaches for a folder and casually questions, as he hands it over, “When’s the last time you spent quality time at home?”

Morse quirks a ghostly smile. “Do I look that much like hell?”

 _Haunted, more like,_ Max thinks privately. “You could do with a shave,” he says wryly, and gestures at the wrinkled shirt he’s sure he saw yesterday, too. _And a few days' sleep while you’re at it,_ he almost adds.

There’s a long, heavy silence. “It feels like I’m lying to her,” Morse says at last. It’s clear enough he means Joan.

It’s not entirely unreasonable; it’s certainly not a case Max would want to discuss over dinner either, but… “Not every case has to cross the hearth,” he points out. 

Morse rubs a hand over his jaw; in a lighter moment, Max would snort at how much like his governor the gesture makes him look. “We promised, no hall stand,” he says tiredly, and after a baffled moment, Max recalls the Thursday family rule that’s been mentioned to him: work doesn’t enter the home. He understands that it’s important to Morse and Joan not to have such a barrier. Well that may be, but he’s always sided a bit more with the inspector on this one; home is meant to be a place of peace. He thinks of the first time his friend sat in his garden, awed by the bursting colors, the pleasant drone of bees, the buttery late-summer light glinting off every surface. _Something has to be lovely,_ he had said, and his belief on the matter hasn’t changed.

“Joan still works at the Welfare, yes? You think she's never had a case she left in the office, one she couldn't utter outside that necessary context for fear that speaking it aloud would summon the same malevolent force? Being able to talk about something doesn't mean you always must.”

Morse glances up at him, startled, eyes bright for a moment, before they shadow over again. “When did you get so wise?” he asks, and it’s with a huffed laugh, but Max can see he’s retreated into himself again. It’s alarming; he has that look that Max remembers too well, one that says he’ll only head home tonight to drink himself to sleep. It’s been a good while since he’s seen that look, and for as much as he wishes he could grab his friend by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, still he worries.

Morse is an artist of self-destruction. Left to his own devices, he’ll combust.

And so he invites Morse out to the pub for a drink, where he can keep an eye on his intake, and perhaps distract him with some talk of more hopeful things. He breathes easier with the unexpected “yes,” and busies himself thinking of sufficiently diverting topics for discussion.

They drink, and talk poetry and theater and all the finer things too few others in their lives appreciate, and catch each other up on the usual gossip. When Max notices Morse, several ales in, edge toward wobbly, he gently reminds him, “You’ve got a wife and two beautiful daughters waiting for you at home, Morse. Whatever it is that’s got you in knots, you’ve got to stop running.”

Morse, more bleary-eyed than warranted by the amount of alcohol he’s imbibed, looks away somewhere over Max’s shoulder, still seeking escape, but he nods and gathers his coat. Max hopes that whatever he’s offered this evening, it’s enough.

**  
He makes it home and halfway up the stairs before he loses his nerve. 

He thinks of the next few steps ahead of him, and his feet feel like they’re made of lead. He thinks of brushing a kiss across a sleeping Sophie’s forehead, listening for Anna’s breathing, and his own breath hitches in his chest. He thinks of settling into bed next to Joan, and the heaviness inside turns to fluttering panic. He tries not to think quite so much, and makes a quiet retreat to the kitchen. Guiltily, he pours himself a too-generous glass of scotch before collapsing on the living room sofa to drown without dragging anyone else under. Maybe this way he can turn down the volume on all the thoughts spiraling endlessly.

It works, sort of, or it must succeed at some kind of muffling, because he doesn’t hear footsteps, only looks up to see Joan’s appeared in the doorway of the room sometime after glass two and before he’s gotten up for glass three. Wordlessly, she settles beside him, her unhappiness apparent in her pinched expression.

The silence between them sharpens to an edge. 

Joan says, eventually, “You reek of smoke and booze,” and even as flatly as she’s uttered the words, Morse hears an accusation. He closes his eyes briefly, screws them shut till colorless light dances behind them, wishing for the words to explain himself.

“Sophie has asked for you at dinner every night this week,” Joan continues. Her arms are folded tightly around her middle and although she’s seated next to him, her body is turned half away; holding herself together, maintaining distance. 

“I—” He isn’t sure what comes after that, so he trails off.

“I hate telling her Daddy isn’t coming home till late,” she goes on. “It’s hard enough just to manage with the three of us without you, but we’ve done it before and we’ll do it again, and I knew that was part of raising children with a detective - but then to find you’ve just been, what, out at the pub till all hours, stumbling in whenever you please, only to drink yourself half blind again at home…”

“I did call,” Morse offers, weakly. It isn’t enough, it isn’t even close. He’s not even sure why he says it, knowing as he does that it’ll only cause Joan’s temper to flare. 

Predictably, it does exactly that. She bristles, and spits, “Oh, yes, how lovely of you to deign to _call_ to let me know you won’t be home for the fourth night in a row; I forgot you deserve extra credit for—” She cuts herself off with a sharp inhale through her nose. “What is it, Morse? What could possibly keep you out this late, that you can’t tell me?”

Morse’s gaze shifts to the middle distance, and he feels his jaw clench, set fast against the bitterness roiling in his stomach. “I was out with Max,” he says quietly, “because he saw something in me… There are some things I just can’t bring home, Joan. Not to you, not to the girls. I can’t… I can’t give Sophie her bath or sing Anna to sleep or hold you with this darkness clinging to me. I can’t…” He feels hollowed out, something vital broken - some shred of faith in goodness or reason snatched from his grasp.

He’s surprised by the light touch of Joan’s fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead. 

“Why?” she whispers. “Why this one?” It’s a valid question; they’ve seen each other through harrowing cases before. 

“Because I want you to believe in goodness,” he says, feeling as though the words have been wrenched out of him. “Because you do something important, something good, and the thought that you could blame yourself breaks me.”

The house is utterly, ominously silent as Joan processes that.

“They’re one of mine?” she clarifies at last. “The - the murderer, or rapist, or whoever it is you’re after, it’s someone whose case I handled at the Welfare?”

Morse’s throat is too dry to speak; he scarcely manages to nod.

And he has good reason, doesn’t he, to worry? Joan, with her heart so big, so open, always willing, striving even, to see the best in people - she has a history of blaming herself for things outside of her control. Things happen around her and she absorbs them, replays each scene, scrutinizing to see where she went wrong. Fierce his wife may be, and empathy her great strength, but self-castigation is her weakness, and he’s feared what knowing this could do to her.

Her simple response, however, catches him off-guard. “Did you catch them?”

Morse thinks of the body crumpled at his feet, of how different it looked under the harsh mortuary lights, of a trio of bullets in a tray and desperately wanting and dreading the knowledge of whether his was the killing shot. The room around him wavers, briefly comes back into focus again as he blinks roughly, then washes out again, watery with a fresh round of tears he refuses to shed.

He says, carefully emotionless, “It’s over. For him, anyway.” For the victims whose stories were ended prematurely, the loved ones only just beginning to mourn - no such mercy, no tidy wrapping.

Joan rests her shoulder against his, sighs heavily. She looks pensive, and he doesn’t have any words of comfort or sufficient apology to offer, so he wraps an arm around her and they’re simply quiet together.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Joan who breaks the silence. It always has been, with them. “I do what I do so everyone has a chance to make their own choices. What my clients do with that chance is on their heads, not mine.”

Morse tries to think around the overwhelming relief - at the break in her anger; that she’s not allowing herself to take on the burden of responsibility for a client’s actions; at the lifting of his own fear, till now carefully buried, that this would be the last straw, that this time she’d walk away - to find the words to tell her that’s one of the things he loves most about her. Her ardent devotion to self-determination - her own and others’ - is part of what drew him to her from the start, and he admires how she’s crafted it into her life’s calling. As too often happens when it matters, though, his words fail him, and so he settles for a murmured, “Never forget that. Any of it.”

The sounds of their breathing twine with the ticking of the clock and the general domestic hum of appliances until they’re interrupted by the clatter of ice shaking free in the icemaker. The sound seemingly reminds Joan that she isn’t finished.

“You can’t drink like this anymore,” she orders. “You’ve got a family now; we need you, all of us. I understand that there are some things you don’t want to bring home, but drowning it in booze isn’t an option either. If you can’t talk it over with me, go to Max, Dad, hell, even Jim Strange - or a professional - I don’t care; our daughters will not grow up around this,” she gestures at him, at the glass in his hand. “This will not happen again. Is that clear?”

Feeling utterly wretched, Morse gives a forceful nod. His gaze falls on a framed photo of Sophie on the side table, one from her most recent birthday, and he sees Joycie instead, remembers spending the early years of his time in that household trying his best to shield her from the uglier realities of life with their father. The thought of Sophie and Anna growing up in such a fractured family fills him with guilt.

Then there’s a warm hand cupping his cheek, and Joan says, just as fervently, “I know it won’t, because I know you love us as much as we love you. Whatever you may think, you’re never, ever in this alone.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to his lips, so gently. “We’re each other’s safety, Morse. Always have been, always will be.”

She makes a face, then, and in the hint of a hidden grin, he senses forgiveness. “Besides… you know I loathe the taste of whisky. I can hardly kiss you when you’ve been marinading in the stuff. And that, husband of mine, is a _threat_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a teeny bit of a downer, I'll admit it, but here's the thing (actually many things, because I have many thoughts): a) Morse is canonically a bit of a drama queen, b) I wanted to see the important people in Morse's life being supportive but also calling him out when he crosses a line, because that's love, babey!, c) while I think my versions of Morse and Joan have come a long way from who they used to be, they're both still dealing with their demons along the way, and I wanted to tackle a little bit of how that might go in a healthy marriage between two traumatized people, and d) I think there's a lot of hope in it. In writing it, I think I solidified my understanding of some parallels between Morse and Joan, in terms of, like... they have this similar tendency toward a misplaced sense of responsibility, and I envision their relationship as being a lot of trying to shield each other from that without quite realizing that's what they're trying to do. They are both getting there with the whole emotional insight thing, but they don't always hit the mark, and that's an interesting conflict to address. Plus, Max has arguably a better picture of Morse than anyone, and I wanted to play a bit with Morse through his eyes.
> 
> Anyway... yeah. I promise there's lots of fluffier times coming for this series, too. It's been a little slower going than anticipated, partly because I'm in the middle of moving, and partly because I picked up a new, rather ambitious AU project, that I'm very nervous about committing to but I'm having too much fun with it not to try, so I've got my head in two pretty different AUs competing for limited mental space!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra chapter of domestic fluff, because I guess I just couldn't leave it there. I banged this out in the last two hours, on impulse, and haven't done a whole lot in terms of editing, so if there are any typos or whatever, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ the alternative was it probably not getting posted at all, given my mental state lately. These snippets were originally planned for the larger parenthood-themed piece I'm working on for this 'verse, but they fit well here, and hopefully this makes up for the angst of the last chapter!

Arms stacked with freshly folded laundry, Joan makes her way upstairs, carefully peering around the tower with each step to make sure Sophie hasn’t left any toys placed for her to trip over. At the top of the stairs, she pauses just outside the nursery. The familiar bars of a lullaby drift out of the room, in Morse’s melodious voice, just barely rising over the last attempts at a tiny cry of protest, and she reflexively smiles, remembering the first time she heard him singing this tune. 

It was the first week home from hospital with Sophie, and Joan was fully convinced she would never sleep more than an hour straight again. Another wail had pierced the wee hours of the night, and right as her face crumpled to match the baby’s and she’d started to haul herself out of bed, Morse laid a hand on her back to gently push her back into the pillows and got up instead. A blissful half hour or so later, Joan finally padded toward the nursery, and just like now, she’d stood in the doorway and listened, enchanted, as her husband sang softly over a fed and much more contented infant who was just finally giving in to heavy eyes and lengthening breaths. So much of parenthood, Joan had already realized in such a short time, was feeling like your heart constantly expanded to fit more memories and types of love. Later, she learned the song was one Morse remembered his mother singing to him throughout childhood, especially when he was sick, and her heart grew yet another size. It seemed impossible it could still fit in her body, at that rate, and that was even before adding another little one to their lives.

Once Anna’s snuffling subsides, Morse somewhat reluctantly lays her down in her crib. When he looks up at Joan, he softens further, as if that were even possible, and she can read the apology in his eyes. Before he has the chance to say anything, she jumps in. Things still felt a little jagged, cracked between them this morning before he left for work, and she’s not exactly eager to go back to that just yet.

“Thought I heard the door earlier, but you know how hard it is to hear anything over that dryer while it’s running,” she comments. “I didn’t realize she’d woken, either. Good job you were here, or I’d never have gotten her back down before she managed to wake Sophie too.”

“Ah, she’d have been a terror by dinner. I wouldn’t be too hasty with the thanks, though; I think it was me coming in that woke her.” His appearance testifies to the fact that he hasn’t been home long: he still has on his suit jacket (wrinkled, Joan notes, but that’s hardly a surprise, if he’s worn the same one all week), albeit unbuttoned, and his tie is askew, but still in place. That’s usually the first thing to go, before he picks up the baby, because Anna tends to tug at it too hard and has nearly choked him more than once.

For want of anything better to say, Joan goes with, “You’re home early.”

“On a Saturday?” he counters wryly. “I wasn’t due in, but I had some… paperwork, to wrap up after yesterday.” The way he hesitates leaves ample room to fill in with all the post-arrest unpleasantness that Joan is confident, in this case, she doesn’t want any details on. Then she remembers, with a swooping stomach, that there wasn’t any arrest at all, rather a body to account for, and she’s even more determined to redirect the conversation. The trouble is, she isn’t sure how.

Morse must sense her discomfort, because he rescues her by asking whether it would be more helpful for him to start on dinner or finally get to that weeding he’s been promising to do for the last month. Considering they have hours yet till dinner, and most of it will be leftovers anyway - seeing as they’ve been down one at the table each night - Joan suggests they tackle the weeds together.

It’s not a bad day for it, really: the sun is strong, but there’s a gentle breeze; and besides, it’s not often the two of them get an uninterrupted hour of fresh air without one daughter or the other shrieking for their attention. The task goes much faster with two pairs of hands at it, and Joan fills the space between them with mostly empty chatter about her coworkers’ latest drama and a television program Win’s obsessed with that Joan started watching just to placate her and has since decided is actually halfway decent. Morse has few stories of his own to add, seemingly still caught up in the same work headspace, but it’s all right; he’s always filled more of the listener role in their conversations, and he makes a solid effort to dutifully engage with even the most mundane topics. That was one of the first things Joan decided she loved about him, when they were dating - that he found her fascinating enough to care what she had to say even when it would have bored him coming from anyone else.

When they’re nearly done and Joan is considering whether she should go in and check on Sophie, who’s likely to wake soon, Morse clears his throat and says, quietly, “I’m sorry. For avoiding you all week.”

Joan breathes deeply through her nose before she responds. “I wish you hadn’t, but I do understand. Or I think I do, anyway. You don’t have to protect me, though, Morse.”

“I know I don’t. That’s what made this harder, knowing you’d want to know what was bothering me, and not… You do take on the blame for things, sometimes. And I thought…”

“Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it,” Joan says immediately, then regrets it, thinking her tone was perhaps too sharp. But Morse’s answering wry grin washes away her doubt.

“What a pair we make,” he says, and then reaches out to brush her hair behind her ear. 

“Watch it, you’ll get leaves in my hair,” Joan admonishes, and then scoots forward so she can kiss him properly. One hand plays with the curls at the nape of his neck, her perennial favorite, and the other balances lightly on his shoulder, which is how she can feel the tightly wound tension in his body slowly start to ease. 

“We really ought to do something about that stress of yours,” she murmurs, suggestively trailing that same hand down his arm and brushing it against a sensitive spot on his side before planting her palm on his chest. He glances up toward their bedroom window hopefully, and Joan shakes her head and tugs him up with a laugh. “Later, if you’re good,” she teases. “Right now, it’s time to get Sophie up, if she isn’t trying to kick down the slats of her crib already, or she won’t sleep at all tonight.”

“Damned impertinence,” Morse mutters darkly, and Joan laughs again. He sounds exactly like his old boss, Mr. Bright, when he says that, and it’s become a favorite phrase around their house whenever one of the girls is acting up.

Sophie is, indeed, awake and determinedly kicking away when they walk in. She squeals in delight when she sees Daddy walk in, though, her escape mission instantly forgotten, and in wordless agreement, Joan leaves Morse to distract her while she prepares dinner. It’s usually a race against the clock to get the pots simmering and places set before Anna wakes up, but she only has to prepare more noodles tonight and heat up an assortment of leftovers. She’s not sure exactly what game her husband and older daughter are playing in the next room, but she keeps hearing the intermittent pitter-patter of little feet, followed by a pause and giggles crescendoing to shrieking laughter as soon as the pounding of Morse’s much larger feet (probably still in his muddy shoes, she thinks with a sigh) starts at an exaggerated, stomping “run.” Half an hour later, when she returns downstairs with a happily burbling Anna on her hip, she can’t help beaming at the sight of Morse laying face down on the floor with Sophie dramatically perched on his back.

“Did you wear her out again already?” she admonishes as she bounces Anna up and down.

“I faster’n Daddy!” Sophie shouts, raising her tiny fists in the air victoriously. 

“Are you? Well, let’s use that speed to get the spoons set out for dinner, shall we? They’re waiting for you on the table,” Joan instructs. Sophie lets out a whoop as she races off toward the kitchen, and Anna does her best to match her sister’s volume. 

Joan reaches a hand down to help Morse to his feet. “Happy to be home?” she asks. “You know you missed all this neverending energy.”

“Always,” Morse answers honestly, before the moment is broken by the sound of a shattering glass. “Sophie?” they both call in unison, and then it’s Joan’s turn to race Morse as they sprint off to the kitchen with hopes of averting disaster.


End file.
